... THE LAYS OP THE DECCAN HUNT. No. V. THE SPEAll THAT ONCE O'ER DECCAN DUST. The Harp that once thro' Tara's Halls. The spear that once o'er Deccan dust The blood of wild Boars sbeil Now stands as soiled in Decean rust As if all Boars had fled So dies each spirit-stirring thought, And they who would have flown With wild hogs' bristly forms to sport Now ride to sport their own. No youth-- so ...

... . The wood sways and rocks in the fierce Equinox, The old heathen war-god hears rule in the sky, Aslant down the street drives the pitiless sleet, At the height of the housetops the eloud-raclc spins by. Old Boreas may bluster, but gaily we'll muster, And crowd every nook on bridge, steam-boat, and shore, With cheering to greet Cam, and Isis, who meet For the Derby of boating, our fete of the ...

... . Love, now you are far away And the night is nigh the morn, And the wint'ry breezes play In the boughs of leaves forlorn, Voices whisper at the door, You shall see her nevermore. What the breezes say I know They have come from where you dwell, They, moist messengers of woe, Unto vacant darkness tell Plow they watched you as you lay Waiting for the break of day. They have pressed against the ...

... . So still so blue, and so serenely calm The Sea is spreading from our wandering feet. The zephyr winds all filled with healthy balm With fannings fanciful fair faces greet. The gorgeous sky o'er arching far above A glorious canopy of azure hue Smiles on the earth ethereal beams of love And leads a thousand charms into the view. Fain would I float upon yon swelling tide, And clasp thee fondly ...

... . The Battle of the Blues from a Cambrian Point of Hue. I wass a true-porn Taffy, put pred up in Liferpool, Which wass the capital of Wales, for it's a regular rule For Camprians to leaf their natif hills and settle down Pesite the Mersey rifer in that money-making town. When I heard of the poat-race, which wass pe a noplc sight, I thought for my compatriots to stick up it wass right, So I ...

... . (A Reply to Miss Helen Taylor).* GENERATIONS of sportsmen have sung a loud song Of the good and the pleasure the Chase can supply; Now, humanitarians prove it is wrong To hunt the poor foxes that so they should die; But ('tis certainly strange) as yet never a word From Reynard himself upon this has been heard, Though he should be the last to stand silently by. Yes, it slightly concerns us, ...

... AT THE MEET. AN IRISH LAMENT. It's at the Meet She looked so sweet Oh, she sat her mare so finely Her habit pressed So tight, I guessed It knew she felt divinely. A fox I would Be, if I could, And it's then I'd die with laughter, For then, how queer That lovely dear, 'Tis me she would run after. Plague lima man Do all I can, In vain I'll try to catch her Oh, how I hate To think foul Fate Most ...

... . Quoth Sothern to Buckstone, Let's give Coe the sack. Replied Buckstone, We will-- ay, in less than a minute. So tliey gave it. When Coe from the City came back, He'd a thousand and thirty-five pounds to put in it. Yorick, ...

... AIATE IN TAVO BY DISCOVERY. Dedicated to Droblcm and Musical composers. B0U1 were clover, yet the problem AVas a little hard to solve Feathers for their nest were wanting, But to mate was their resolve. Life's too dismal without loving, And to love these two were prone. But. to mortals 'tis not given Hero to live 011 love alone. So they sadder grew and sadder Every time they talked it o'er For ...

... . 1. A Prize of Five Guineas will be given to the person who scores most guesses jn the course of the hulf-yciir ending June 30th und prizes of Three Guinea* will he given to the second and of Two Guineas to the third in order of merit. 2. Answers must he received, in envelopes marked Acrostic in the corner, not later than the Monday week following the date of publication. 3. If two or more ...

... . By THOMAS CAREW. BORN 1600; DIED 1639. Ask me why I send you here This first, ling of the infant year Ash me why I send to you This primrose all bepearl'd with dew I straight will whisper in your ears, The sweets oj love are washed with tears Ash me why this floio'r doth show So yellow, green, and richly too Ash me why this stallc is weak, And bending yet it doth not break I must tell you ...

... THE TJONT COAITOTTR [After Campbell.] Our voices sung truce-- for we thrice had encored That music-hall star with the glass in his eye And hundreds sunk low who the chorus had roared, The thoughtless to laugh, the judicious to sigh. When reposing that night on my soft feather bed, By the window that looks into Rosemary Lane, At the time of the night that is christened the dead A dream ...